The Man Who Ended the World (6 page)

It works so well that he often forgets that Stacy's avatar is only for show.

Stacy is always watching. 

The Infiltrators

Clarissa shrieks. 

Henry closes the bag and jumps backward. Wait, no, he says. It's not real! 

Clarissa stops. It's not real?

He opens the bag again and shows her the sticks of dynamite inside. 

She reaches in and picks one up. It's just a wooden dowel, she says.

There were a bunch of them in my dad's workshop, Henry says. So I spray-painted them red and tied some string to them. 

She throws the dowel at his head. He doesn't see it coming, and the dowel hits him above the ear. 

What was that for? he says, grabbing his head. 

Because, she says, dynamite could have worked!

Why did you scream? 

I don't know! she shouts. I just did! Is that okay?

Fine! he insists. Stop yelling at me!

She stops. Sorry. 

So how do we get in now? 

Well, dynamite could have worked, Clarissa says. But it would have been pretty loud. Someone would have come to see what happened. And then we would never get into the car. So it's probably good that you didn't get real dynamite.

See, he says.

But
, she retorts, it also could have worked. 

What if it blew up whatever is underneath the car? Henry asks. 

Well, that's possible, too, Clarissa says.

So we're back at square one, Henry says.

Square one, Clarissa agrees.

Not exactly, Stacy says. 

•   •   •

Clarissa shrieks again. 

Henry looks around. Who said that? 

Stacy says, That would be me. Over here. 

Clarissa is still shrieking.

Henry says, Hey, stop. I can't hear. Over where?

Here, Stacy says, and to signal Henry, she raises the car lid gently, and lets it fall shut again.

Clarissa stops shrieking and stares at the car, eyes wide.

Henry, she says. Did the car just talk to us? Does the car have a mouth? 

Henry shakes his head. I don't know. 

Ask it, Clarissa says, elbowing him.

Um, Henry says. Car? 

Yes, Stacy says. The trunk lid snicks open and shut. 

Clarissa leaps backward and opens her mouth. 

Henry slaps his hand over her mouth. Shh, he says. This is really, really cool.

Clarissa just stares.

Car, Henry says again. What day is today?

The trunk lid moves as Stacy speaks. Today is Tuesday, the fourteenth of November, two thousand twenty-three. 

Oh my god, this is so cool, Henry breathes. Car! Car, what time is it? 

The time is ten forty-one a.m., Stacy says, still bouncing the trunk lid for effect. I see you are both very small humans, so I must ask. Should you not be in compulsory educational sessions at this time?

Clarissa gasps. It knows we're playing hooky.

Henry says, It's a holiday! 

There are no nationally-recognized holidays on this date, Stacy says. World Diabetes Day is recognized today, but I do not believe that educational facilities close in observance of such an occasion. 

Holy shit, Clarissa says. It's a smart car. 

Henry says, Car, what is two plus two?

I will answer your question, Stacy says, but we must first define the scale of measurement necessary to answer. Do you prefer the nominal scale? Or perhaps the ordinal scale? We might also use the interval scale or the ratio scale. I should point out that I believe the answer you are looking for is 'four', but that answer is only correct when we are using the interval or ratio scale. 

Henry is dumbfounded. Uh, he says. Never mind.

Clarissa says, This isn't real, right? Someone is fucking with us, right? 

Stacy says, To be honest, I am a little fucking with you. But I am real. 

What do you mean, you're -- Clarissa starts.

Henry interrupts. Where did the man go who climbed in your mouth? 

Stacy actually laughs. Where do you think he went? 

Clarissa says, I think he's... underground. I think you're just his doorway. 

Stacy says, The female child is correct. 

Henry squints at the car. So... what's down there? 

Stacy opens the trunk of the Corsica. It illuminates from within.

Both children jump back.

Come and see, she says. 

•   •   •

I'm not going in until you tell me what's --

Henry interrupts Clarissa. This is
awesome
!

He darts up the solid trash pile and peers into the trunk of the dilapidated Corsica. The interior of the trunk has been torn away and resculpted into a smooth metal funnel. Just inside the mouth, Henry can see the first of several rungs emerging from the wall. The rungs appear to be part of the wall, not something bolted on afterward. 

There is a gently trembling light emerging from the tunnel.

Henry, I don't know if we should, Clarissa says.

Stacy interjects. This is perfectly safe. I give you my word.

Yes, but who are you? Clarissa asks. You sound... maybe not real.

Henry excitedly says, Are you a robot? Are you seriously like a robot? 

My name is Stacy. And I can see that you're a little nervous, Clarissa. Let me provide you with some context, so that you can make the best decision for yourself. 

How did you know my name? Clarissa demands. 

Stacy does not tell her the truth -- that she quickly scanned a series of dubiously-protected databases for the faces of girls between the ages of ten and fourteen, and matched Clarissa's face to a yearbook photo from her last recorded grade completed. Instead, she says, I know all the children in the world, Clarissa. 

She applied the most benevolent voice filters possible to that sentence, but Clarissa appears even more appalled. 

That is seriously creepy, she says. Henry, don't go in there. This feels wrong. 

Henry is already throwing a leg over the trunk. 

Henry! Clarissa warns. 

I will return him safely, Stacy says to Clarissa. I promise.

And the trunk lid closes over Henry.

•   •   •

At the bottom of the ladder, Henry looks back up towards the surface. It's dark, and he can't even see the inside of the Corsica's trunk above him.

Come, Henry, Stacy says.

Stacy's avatar is visible on the far wall, bobbing gently. 

Is that you? he asks. You're a talking lightbulb? 

I'm much more than that, Stacy says. This is just how I choose to show myself to you. Come with me, please.

He hesitates. Is Clarissa okay? 

Stacy converts a wall of the entry chamber to video. Henry can see the junkyard clearly. The camera must be on one of the fence posts surrounding the yard. It's focused on Clarissa, who is standing in the same place, staring at the trunk. She plunges her fingers into her hair and rocks from one foot to the other, clearly distressed.

She's upset, Henry says. Can I talk to her?

I'll turn on the audio feed, Stacy says. 

-enry! Clarissa's voice calls. Henry! Come out of there!

I'm okay! Henry says. 

Clarissa stops rocking. What?

I'm okay, he repeats. 

Clarissa looks confused. I can't hear you. Henry?

Stacy says, Perhaps speak more loudly.

I'M OKAY, Henry shouts. CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?

Clarissa claps her hands over her ears.

Perhaps more quietly, Stacy suggests.

Is that better? he asks.

Clarissa drops her hands. What's in there? Are you okay? Come out now, okay? I'm scared.

Henry starts to speak, but Stacy interrupts. 

Henry can leave any time, Clarissa, Stacy says. But if he leaves now, that's it. I won't open the car again.

Wait, Henry says. Is there more? I want to see more!

Clarissa says, Let him out. Please? Let him out. Henry, come out!

Henry looks at the video wall. Can she see me? he says quietly.

No. There's no external video display, Stacy says.

Okay, he says. 

Henry? Clarissa asks. What's going on?

Clarissa, he says. I'm going to stay for a little while. I promise I'll come back out. 

He looks around the room for the source of Stacy's voice. You are going to let me out, right? 

Of course, Stacy says. 

She's going to let me out in a little bit, okay? Henry says.

Clarissa looks uncertain. Should I wait? 

This may take awhile, Stacy says to Henry. 

She says it might take--

I heard her, Clarissa says. How long?

Stacy answers. There is much for Henry to see. Perhaps you should return tomorrow.

I'm not really comfortable with this, Clarissa says.

Henry, we should continue, Stacy suggests. 

I'll come out tomorrow, Henry says. 

What about your parents?

Um, he says, uncertainly. I don't know? 

Clarissa says, You know they'll be upset. They'll call the police.

What do I do? Henry asks Stacy.

Who is your best friend? Stacy asks.

I am, Clarissa answers from outside. 

Who else? Stacy asks. Clarissa is not the right solution.

Hey! Clarissa shouts.

Henry thinks. Well, me and Boyd Trillby are okay friends.

Stacy says, One moment.

Her avatar flickers out, leaving the room empty except for Henry and Clarissa on the video wall. 

Clarissa? he says.

I think you should come out, Henry, she says. This worries me! What if this is a trap? What if someone in there likes to eat little kids? 

Are you okay? he asks. 

Do I sound okay? she shrieks. Come out!

Stacy's avatar blooms on the wall next to the video. No need to worry about your parents, she says. They have no objections to you spending the night at Boyd's house. 

How did you -- 

She interrupts. Henry, we must be going now. Clarissa, I will return him to you tomorrow morning at this time. 

Clarissa stomps her foot. Hey, I don't --

The video wall goes dark. At the same moment, a wall across the room separates to reveal an elevator. The inside is padded with blankets. 

That looks scary, Henry says.

It's a service elevator, Stacy says. The other elevator is for Mr. Glass, and he will notice if it is used. 

Mr. Glass the missing man? Henry exclaims.

But Stacy only says, Henry. Come.

He steps into the elevator, and the doors hiss shut behind him.

•   •   •

Henry? Clarissa says. Henry? Strange robot lady? Hello? 

She tentatively climbs the garbage pile. The Corsica rests innocently there, its trunk closed, most of its windows punched out. 

Clarissa knocks on the trunk. Henry? 

She waves her hands in the air, crossing them in front of her face. Hello? Henry? Hey! Come out!

But there is only silence.

Henry is gone.

The Recluse

In a slip in a marina in Monaco, bobbing gently on the glittering waters of the Mediterranean Sea, is a two hundred thirteen-foot yacht. Its decks have not been walked on since its christening. Its staterooms have never been occupied. Its hull has never passed over a single reef.

The ship's name is Sea of Glass.

Steven had it designed and built because that's what tech billionaires did when they made their first billion. They bought big boats. And on their first night of ownership, they threw large parties, attended by large personalities. And if all went well, by the end of the night they were slightly less than billionaires.

Steven never threw that party. 

Steven threw up in his bathroom at the very idea of such a party. 

Then he wiped his mouth, splashed some water on his face, changed out of his board meeting attire and into no clothes at all, and fell asleep on the sofa watching very old reruns of
Six Feet Under
, which just reminded him of being a teenager.

He has always struggled with the expectations of being unbelievably rich. It's not something he talks about. The average human being doesn't respond well to the complaints of a rich man. 

The average human being doesn't understand the burdens of a rich man. 

The average human being would happily accept those burdens without realizing just how heavy they are. 

When he was twenty-four, Steven attended a birthday party for Alexander Sharpe. Steven was invited to the party by the chief technology officer from Google. I hate parties like this, the woman had confessed to Steven. They make me nervous.

Steven had sensed a kindred spirit in her, but disliked people so much that he found it impossible to follow that perception up with an actual friendship. 

The Sharpe party was the beginning of Steven's disengagement from society. Steven was relatively unknown in 2012. Most of the partygoers did not know him, and would not have pegged him as the most important person in the room. Nobody knew that in just three years, he would change the course of human interaction forever.

 Not that anybody would have cared. It was 2012. Facebook had recently gone public. Apple had survived the loss of its mentor. Sharpe had turned a failed social experiment into the year's next big technology explosion. 

But Steven had met another young tech fellow named Cerrano Badeh, who had seen in Steven a wet, quivering lump of dough that, perhaps, he could form into something notable.

The women here, Cerrano had said to him, are attracted to the smell of ink and paper. They want money. Do you see that man over there? 

Steven followed Cerrano's pointing finger and saw a man with thinning hair and a considerable gut leaning against the bar. The man was sipping a tumbler of something golden-colored. His back was to Steven.

That man, Cerrano said, could have any woman here he likes. Any woman! Can you imagine that power? 

Steven shook his head. He must be rich? 

Rich is too easy a word, Cerrano said. The man is money itself. He owns three islands. Islands, my friend. Islands make the women glisten with anticipation.